Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho was glad he was not here. Only his influence remained. The men who hurried about the decks looked strained, resentful. Even Jenour, who had not served very much at sea, had remarked on it.

  Bolitho beckoned to the signals midshipman. “The glass, if you please, Mr Furnival.” He noticed the youth’s hands, raw from working all night aloft, and then trying to assume the dress and bearing of a King’s officer by day.

  Bolitho raised the glass and saw the sloop-of-war swim sharply into focus, the creaming wash of sea as she tilted her gunports into a deep swell. He wondered what her commander, Dunstan, was thinking as he rode out the wind and waves to hold station on his admiral. It was a far cry from Euryalus’s midshipman’s berth.

  He moved the glass still further and saw a green brush-stroke of land far away on the larboard bow. Another island, Barbuda. They should have left it to starboard on the first day. He thought of the schooner, of Catherine who had asked the master to take her around Antigua to St John’s instead of using the road.

  A small vessel like that would stand no chance against such a gale. Her master could either run with the wind, or try to find shelter. Better ships would have suffered in the storm; some might have perished. He clenched his fingers around the telescope until they ached. Why did she do it? She could be lying fathoms deep, or clinging to some wreckage. She might even have seen Hyperion’s toplights, have known it was his ship.

  He heard the master call to the officer-of-the-watch, “I would approve if you could get the t’gallants on her, Mr Mansforth.”

  The lieutenant nodded, his face brick-red from the salt spray. “I—I shall inform the Captain.” He was very aware of the figure by the weather side, with the boat-cloak swirling around him. Hatless, his black hair plastered to his forehead, he looked more like a highwayman than a vice-admiral.

  Jenour emerged from the poop and touched his hat. “Any orders, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho returned the glass to the midshipman. “The wind has eased. Please make a signal to the transports to keep closed up. We are not out of trouble yet.”

  The four ships which were sharing most of the treasure were keeping downwind of the two seventy-fours. With a brig scouting well ahead, and the other trailing astern like a guard-dog, they should be warned in time should a suspicious sail show itself. Then Hyperion and Obdurate could gauge their moment before running down on the convoy, or beating up to windward to join Phaedra.

  Flags soared up to the yards and stiffened to the wind like painted metal.

  “Acknowledged, Sir Richard.” Then in a hushed voice Jenour added, “The Captain is coming.”

  Bolitho felt the bitterness rising within him. They were more like conspirators than of one company.

  Haven walked slowly across the streaming planking, his eyes on the gun-breechings, flaked lines, coiled braces, everything.

  He was apparently satisfied that he had nothing to fear from what he saw, and crossed the deck to Bolitho.

  He touched his hat, his face expressionless while his eyes explored Bolitho’s wet shirt and spray-dappled breeches.

  “I intend to make more sail, Sir Richard. We should carry it well enough.”

  Bolitho nodded. “Signal Obdurate so that they conform. I don’t want us to become separated.” Captain Thynne had lost two men overboard the previous day and had backed his mizzen top-sail while he had attempted to send away the quarter boat. Neither of the luckless men was recovered. They had either fallen too far from aloft and been knocked senseless when they hit the sea, or like most sailors, were unable to swim. Bolitho had not intended to mention it.

  But Haven snorted, “I will make the signal at once, Sir Richard. Thynne wants to drill his people the better, and not dawdle about when some fool goes outboard through his own carelessness!”

  He gestured to the lieutenant-of-the-watch.

  “Hands aloft and loose t’gan’sls, Mr Mansforth!” He looked at the midshipman. “General signal. Make more sail. ” His arm shot out across the quarterdeck rail. “ That man! Just what the bloody hell is he about?”

  The seaman in question had been wringing out his checkered shirt in an effort to dry it.

  He stood stockstill, his eyes on the quarterdeck, while others moved aside in case they too might draw Haven’s wrath.

  A boatswain’s mate yelled, “’Tis all right, sir! I told him to do it!”

  Haven turned away, suddenly furious.

  But Bolitho had seen the gratitude in the seaman’s eyes and knew that the boatswain’s mate had told him nothing of the kind. Were they all so sick of Haven that even the afterguard were against him?

  “Captain Haven!” Bolitho saw him turn, the anger gone. It was unnerving how he could work up a sudden rage and disperse it to order. “A word, if you please.”

  The midshipman called, “All acknowledged, sir.”

  Bolitho said, “This ship has never been in action under your command or beneath my flag. I’ll trouble you to remember it when next you berate a man who has been running hither and thither for two days and nights.” He was finding it hard to keep his voice level and under control. “When the time comes to beat to quarters in earnest, you will expect, nay, demand instant loyalty.”

  Haven stammered, “I know some of these troublemakers—”

  “Well, hear me, Captain Haven. All these men, good and bad, saints and troublemakers, will be called on to fight, do I make myself clear? Loyalty has to be earned, and a captain of your experience should not need to be told! Just as you should not require me to remind you that I will not tolerate senseless brutality from anyone!”

  Haven stared back at him, his eyes sparking with indignation.

  “I am not supported, Sir Richard! Some of my wardroom are as green as grass, and my senior, Mr Parris, is more concerned with gaining favour for himself! By God, I could tell you things about that one!”

  Bolitho snapped, “That is enough. You are my flag captain, and you have my support.” He let the words sink in. “I know not what ails you, but if you abuse my trust once again, I shall put you in the next ship for England!”

  Parris had appeared on deck and as the calls trilled to muster the topmen once again for making more sail, he glanced at Bolitho, then at his captain.

  Haven tugged his hat more firmly over his ginger hair and said, “Carry on, Mr Parris.”

  Bolitho knew Parris was surprised. There was no additional threat or warning.

  As the seamen poured up the ratlines like monkeys, and the masthead pendant whipped sharply for the first time to prove that the wind was indeed easing, Haven said stiffly, “I have standards too, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho dismissed him and turned again towards the far-off island. Allday stood a few paces away. He never seemed to trust him alone any more, Bolitho thought.

  Allday said, “Them island schooners is hardy craft, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho did not turn but touched his arm. “Thank you, old friend. You always know what I’m thinking.” He watched two gulls rising above the wave crests, their wings spread and catching a brighter sunlight as it broke through the clouds. Like Catherine’s fan.

  He said desperately, “I feel so helpless.” He looked at Allday’s strong profile. “Forgive me. I should not pass my burden to you.”

  Allday’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the leaping waves, their long crests curling over to the wind’s thrust.

  It was like gauging the fall of shot. Up one. Down one. The next would hit home.

  He said, “Matter of fact, she spoke to me afore we left harbour.”

  Bolitho stared. “To you?”

  Allday sounded ruffled. “Well, some women feels free to speak with the likes o’ me.”

  Bolitho touched his arm again. “Please, no games, old friend.”

  Allday said, “Told me she was fair bothered about you. Wanted you to know it, like.”

  Bolitho banged his fist on the weathered rail. “I didn’t even try to understand. Now I’ve lost her.” It
was spilling out of him, and he knew that only Allday would understand, even if he did not always agree.

  Allday’s eyes were faraway. “Knew a lass once in a village where I was livin’. She was fair taken with the squire’s son, a real young blade ’e was. She was made for him, an’ he never even knew she was alive, the bastard, beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho watched him, wondering if Allday had wanted that girl.

  Allday said simply, “One day she threw herself down in front of the squire’s coach. She couldn’t take no more, I ’spect, and wanted to show him. ” He looked at his scarred hands. “She was killed.”

  Bolitho wiped the spray from his face. To show him. Was that what Catherine had done because of him?

  Why had he not seen it, accepted that love could never be won the easy way? He thought of Valentine Keen, and his girl with the moonlit eyes. He had risked so much, and won everything because of it.

  He heard Allday move away, probably going below for a “wet” with his friends, or with Ozzard in his pantry.

  He walked towards the poop and saw Mr Penhaligon watching the set of each sail, his beefy hands on his hips. Haven pouting as he peered at the compass, Parris watching him, waiting to dismiss the watch below.

  Bolitho listened to the regular clank of pumps; the old Hyperion carried all of them. She had seen hundreds of hopes dashed, bodies broken on these same decks.

  Bolitho’s ears seemed to fasten on to a new intrusion.

  He exclaimed, “Gunfire!”

  Several men jumped at the sharpness in his voice; Allday, who was still on the ladder, turned and looked towards him.

  Then the signals midshipman said excitedly, “Aye, I hear it, sir!”

  Haven strode to the quarterdeck rail, his head moving from side to side, still unable to hear the sound.

  Jenour came running from the poop. “Where away?” He saw Bolitho and flushed. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho shaded his eyes as the midshipman yelled, “From Phaedra, sir! Sail to the nor’-west! ”

  Bolitho saw men climbing into the shrouds, their discomfort forgotten. For the moment.

  Jenour asked anxiously, “What does it mean, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho said, “Signal Phaedra to investigate.” Minutes later when the midshipman’s signalling party had run the flags up the yard Bolitho replied, “Small cannon, Stephen. Swivels or the like.”

  Why had he heard, when so many others around him had not?

  He said, “Signal Tetrarch to close on the flag.”

  Allday said admiringly, “God, look at ’er go!” He was watching the sloop-of-war turning away, showing her copper in the misty sunlight, as she spread more canvas and rounded fiercely until she was close-hauled on the larboard tack.

  Allday added, “Like your Sparrow, eh, Cap’n?” He grinned awkwardly. “I mean Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho took a telescope from the rack. “I remember. I hope young Dunstan appreciates the greatest gift as I once did.”

  None of the others understood and once again Allday was moved by the privilege.

  Bolitho lowered the glass. Too much spray and haze, whirling in the wind like smoke.

  A privateer perhaps? Crossing swords with a Barbuda trader. Or one of the local patrols braving the wind and sea to chase an enemy corvette? Phaedra would soon know. It might also be a decoy to draw their flimsy defences away from the gold and silver.

  He smiled bitterly. How would Haven react to that, he wondered?

  “Nor’-west-by-north, sir!” The helmsman had to yell to make himself heard above the roar of wind through the canvas and rigging, pushing the sloop-of-war hard over until it was impossible to stand upright.

  Commander Alfred Dunstan gripped the quarterdeck rail and tugged his cocked hat more firmly over his wild auburn hair. He had been Phaedra’s captain for eighteen months, his first command, and with luck still on his side might soon be transferring his single epaulette to his right shoulder, the first definite step to post-rank.

  He shouted, “Bring her up two points to wind’rd, Mr Meheux! God damn it, we’ll not let it escape, whatever it is!”

  He saw the first lieutenant exchange a quick glance with the sailing-master. Phaedra seemed to be sailing as close to the wind as she dared, so that her braced yards and bulging sails appeared to be almost fore-and-aft, thrusting her over, the sea boiling around her gunports and deluging the bare-backed seamen until their tanned bodies shone like crude statuary.

  Dunstan strained his eyes aloft to watch every sail, and his topmen straddled out along the yards, some doubtless remembering Obdurate’s hands who had been lost overboard in the storm.

  “Full-an’-bye, sir! Nor’-west-by-west!”

  The deck and rigging protested violently, the shrouds making a vibrant thrumming sound as the ship heeled over still further.

  The first lieutenant, who was twenty-three, a year younger than his captain, shouted, “She’ll not take much more, sir!”

  Dunstan grinned excitedly. He had a sensitive, pointed face and humorous mouth, and some people had told him he looked like Nelson. Dunstan liked the compliment, but had discovered the resemblance himself long ago, even as a midshipman in Bolitho’s big first-rate Euryalus.

  “A plague on your worries! What are you, an old woman?”

  They laughed like schoolboys, for Meheux was the captain’s cousin, and each knew almost what the other was thinking.

  Dunstan tightened his lips as a line parted on the fore-top-sail yard with the echo of a pistol shot. But two men were already working out to repair it, and he replied, “We must beat up to wind’rd in case the buggers show us a clean pair of heels an’ we lose them!”

  Meheux did not argue; he knew him too well. The sea boiled over the gangway and flung two men, cursing and floundering, into the scuppers. One came up against a tethered cannon and did not move. He had been knocked senseless, or had broken a rib or two. He was dragged to a hatchway, the others crouching like athletes as they gauged the moment to avoid the next incoming torrent of water.

  Meheux enjoyed the excitement, just as Dunstan was never happier than when he was free of the fleet’s apron strings or an admiral’s authority. They did not even know the meaning or source of the gunfire; they might discover that it was another British man-of-war engaged in taking an enemy blockade-runner. If so, there was no chance of sharing the prize-money this time. The other captain would see to that.

  Dunstan climbed up the ratlines of the lee shrouds, the waves seeming to swoop at his legs as he hung out to train his telescope while he waited for the next cry from the masthead.

  The lookout yelled, “Fine on the starboard bow, sir!” He broke off as the ship lifted then plunged deeply into a long trough, hard down until her gilded figurehead was awash, as if Phaedra was on her way to the bottom. The crash must have all but shaken the lookout from his precarious perch.

  Then he called, “Two ships, sir! One dismasted!”

  Dunstan climbed back again and grinned as he poured water from his hat. “Fine lookout, Mr Meheux! Give him a guinea!”

  The first lieutenant smiled. “He’s one of my men, sir.”

  Dunstan was wiping his telescope. “Oh, good. Then you give the feller a guinea!”

  There was more sporadic firing, but because of the lively sea and the drifting curtains of spray it was impossible to determine the other vessels, except from the masthead.

  Phaedra heeled upright, and the main topsail boomed and thundered violently as the wind went out of it.

  “Man the braces there! Let her fall off three points!” Dunstan released his grip on the rail. The wind was dropping significantly so that the hull had to be brought under command to take advantage of it.

  “Nor’-nor’-west, sir! Steady as she goes!”

  Meheux gasped, “By God, there they are.”

  Dunstan raised his glass again. “Hell’s teeth! It’s that damn schooner we were looking for!”

  Meh
eux studied his profile, the wild hair flapping beneath the battered hat which Dunstan always wore at sea. Once, in his cups, Dunstan had confided, “I’ll get meself a new hat when I’m posted, not before!”

  Meheux said, “The one with the Inspector General’s lady aboard?”

  Dunstan grinned broadly. Meheux was a reliable and promising officer. He was a child where women were concerned.

  “I can see why our vice-admiral was so concerned!”

  A man yelled, “They’re casting adrift, sir! They’ve seen us, by God!”

  Dunstan’s smile faded. “Stand by on deck! Starboard battery load, but don’t run out!” He gripped the lieutenant’s arm. “A bloody pirate if I’m any judge, Josh!”

  The first lieutenant’s name was Joshua. Dunstan only used it when he was really excited.

  Dunstan said urgently, “We’ll take him first. Put some good marksmen in the tops. She’s a fancy little brigantine, worth a guinea or two, wouldn’t you say?” He saw Meheux hurry away, the glint of steel as a boarding party was mustered clear of the gun crews and their rammers.

  The schooner was dismasted although someone had tried to put up a jury rig. In that gale it must have been a nightmare.

  Meheux came back, strapping on his favourite hanger.

  “What about the others, sir?”

  Dunstan trained the glass, then swore as a puff of smoke followed by a sharp bang showed that the pirate had fired on his ship.

  “God blast their bloody eyes!” Dunstan raised his arms as he had seen Bolitho do when they had prepared for battle, so that his coxswain could clip on his sword. “Open the ports! Run out! ”

  He recalled what Meheux had just asked him. “If they’re alive we’ll take them next, if not—” He shrugged. “One thing is certain, they’re not going anywhere!”

  He glanced around and winced as the pirate fired again and a ball slapped down alongside. The stage was set.

  Dunstan drew his sword and held it over his head. He felt the chill run down his arm, as if the blade was made of ice. He remembered crouching with another midshipman on Euryalus’s quarterdeck, sick with terror, yet unable to tear his eyes away as the enemy’s great mountain of sails had towered above the gang-way. And Bolitho standing out on the exposed deck, his sword in the air, each gun captain watching, sweating out the agonising seconds which had been like hours. Eternity.